


Temporary one

by LovisaCansino



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28387233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovisaCansino/pseuds/LovisaCansino
Summary: Because during the brief time she had been home, she apparently reconnected with Joe Burns. And today, a letter from her arrived, saying that Mr. Burns had, yet again, proposed marriage. Only this time, her answer had been yes.
Relationships: Charles Carson/Elsie Hughes
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Temporary one

He sighed for the millionth time and wondered what to do. He had expected her to write while she was away – had wanted her to write, as worried as he was about her. She had gone back home to Argyll to bury her sister, the sister nobody had known she had. He had considered, for a brief and reckless moment, to offer to accompany her, but they both knew the house couldn’t do without both the butler and the housekeeper at the same time. But it seemed to him, as he read her letter for the eighth time, that he made a mistake in not going with her. If he had, maybe they wouldn’t find themselves in the predicament they were in.

Because during the brief time she had been home, she apparently reconnected with Joe Burns. And today, a letter from her arrived, saying that Mr. Burns had, yet again, proposed marriage. Only this time, her answer had been yes.

* * *

_Dear Mr. Carson,_

_I must thank you again for your support during this difficult time. We buried Becky yesterday, in a small but lovely ceremony. There weren’t many of us there, but every single person that attended had met Becky and knew what a sweet soul she was. There are still a few things left to see to, but I expect to be back at Downton soon._

_However, I am afraid I will not be coming back to stay. I am very sorry to be saying all of this through a letter, and of course we will talk more when I’m back, but I wanted you to be the first to know. Hopefully you remember Joe Burns, a former friend who visited me last year, in the village. We met again this time and he has been wonderfully helpful. Not only that, but he has once again asked for my hand in marriage. I said yes._

_You see, I have come to a point in my life…._ and it was here that he usually stopped reading.

* * *

She couldn’t leave, it was as simple as that. How does one explain to a colleague – albeit one they had worked with closely for a great many years – that they shouldn’t get married? He supposed he would have to explain why.

And, well, why was it that Mrs. Hughes could not, under any circumstances, get married?

The first reason was, of course, Downton. Housekeepers were in short supply these days and housekeepers as highly qualified as Mrs. Hughes were even harder, if not impossible, to come by.

So, no, Mrs. Hughes could not leave Downton.

The second reason was, of course, the life she had created for herself there. So many times through the years he had heard her say how glad she was to have been able to get out of Argyll and leave the farm life behind to make something out of herself. Was she willing to throw all that away? And what of the friends she had made there? He knew she didn’t consider the Crawleys to be her family, but surely, surely she held a spot in her heart for the maids she helped nurture? He knew she had something of a friendship, albeit a distant one, with Mrs. Crawley – they understood each other better than most, it seemed. And Mrs. Patmore: for all their fighting, he knew they were there for each other when it counted.

So, no, Mrs. Hughes could not leave Downton.

And he needed to make her see that.

With such a noble mission in mind, he gathered his weapons for battle: his finest pen, given to him by His Lordship many birthdays ago; ink; a seemingly endless supply of writing paper and a fresh pot of tea. He didn’t mind staying up all night to complete his task.

 _Dear Mrs. Hughes,_ he began, _it has come to my attention that you wish to extend your stay in Argyll_ … what a ridiculous way to start. Of course it had come to his attention – she was the one who brought it there! He tossed the paper aside and began afresh, another unspoiled sheet in front of him.

 _Dear Mrs. Hughes,_ he tried again, _did I understand correctly? You are going back to Argyll to be married?_ Too forward, for heaven’s sake! He could at least try to introduce the subject in a less abrupt manner.

 _Dear Mrs. Hughes, if I were you, I would think again before making this kind of decision_ oh, great, now he was threatening her.

 _Mrs. Hughes,_ best to be formal, he thought – it was a household matter, after all, _surely this is something we should discuss in person._ No, he couldn’t give her the impression he wanted to have a say in her personal life – even though he very clearly did. Try again.

And on and on he went, until he finally admitted to himself he would make no more process that night. Before closing the door to his pantry, he surveyed the mess around him: the dozens and more dozens of discarded beginnings (for he could never get past the beginning) lying around the floor, mocking him for his insufficiency; the near empty ink pot he almost knocked over several times, and the hole he could swear he’d opened on the carpet due to his pacing, which he did between one attempt and another, for inspiration.

With a heavy sigh, he resolved to go to bed and try again in the morning.

Not that he got much rest that night. There was no tossing and turning – only staring blankly at the ceiling while his mind whirled with all the possible ways he could win this battle.

For it was a battle, he realized.

And at one point during the night, it did occur to him why, exactly, was he so determined to keep Mrs. Hughes from getting married. Thankfully, he was able to quickly dismiss the voice in his head that told him exactly why: because he would miss her, because he had never imagined Downton without her, had never imagined his life without her, that somewhere in the back of his mind he had always thought they were a team, inseparable, unbeatable, and one day, though he would never dare to say it aloud, one day they would retire together and live out the rest of their days in companionship, and maybe, possibly, hopefully, he would be brave enough, braver than he ever thought possible, and tell her the whole truth.

Because the truth was he loved her. Deeply, completely and ever since he would remember.

If she ever left Downton, left him, the very fabric of what held his life together would suddenly disintegrate.

But he couldn’t tell her that. Heavens, he couldn’t even tell himself that.

* * *

“Mr. Carson, do you have any mail?”

William’s voice startled him out of the haze he seemed to be in since the early morning.

“Excuse me?”

“Mail, Mr. Carson. Do you have any? The postman is here, and I figured he could save us a trip to the village to drop any letters. Only, I saw you got a letter from Mrs. Hughes yesterday, and was wondering if you already had an answer?”

Mr. Carson blinked at the boy, as if struggling to comprehend the words he said. Until something inside of his mind seemed to click, and he was suddenly drawn out of his stupor.

“Yes, William, I do have an answer. Will you wait a moment?” he said, and rushed to his desk in a frenzy, hastily scribbling something in a piece of paper and folding it in an envelope. “There you go”

If the boy thought strange that a letter from the housekeeper was answered with what seemed to be a less-than-ten-words note, he didn’t show it.

* * *

A week later, about the time he figured it took for his letter to arrive in Scotland, she rang the house. He wasn’t in his pantry, so Mrs. Patmore answered and told him Mrs. Hughes had telephoned from the station, in an agitated state, and said she would be back later that day, but not to wait up, since she would probably be in very late.

That didn’t stop him. Even after everyone had gone to bed, he stayed in his pantry, the door ajar, in complete silence, fearful of missing the sound of the back door opening and be caught by surprise. He wanted to be ready. After all, it was most likely the letter he had written that caused her to leave Argyll in a haste. He didn’t know how she would react when she saw him. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was very nervous.

He didn’t need to be, as it turns out. Because, even though he heard the back door opening and heard her hurried footsteps, nothing had prepared him for what he saw: standing in the door to his pantry, with tears streaming down her face, was Mrs. Hughes, looking scared and worried and tired, but smiling. And as she ran to him, arms going around him as she collided with his chest, the letter he’d written a week earlier fluttered away to the floor, to be found many days later.

_Elsie,_

_Please come back._

_Charles._

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a Fleetwood Mac song with the same name.


End file.
